


Curls & Cases

by Practicefortheheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hairdresser!John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Practicefortheheart/pseuds/Practicefortheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I found him by accident. A happy one, I would say. When I came in here a few months ago, looking for a good stakeout location, I had no idea I’d be coming back again. I might have been less rude if I had.  Although he never minds it when I am, which is probably why I came back in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Curls & Cases

**Author's Note:**

> This was written thanks to [Kelley](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/), who suggested a hairdresser!John au. 
> 
> And thanks to [Philippa](http://gonesherlocking.tumblr.com/) for the last minute beta'ing!
> 
> I might write a second chapter, if I find the time. :)
> 
> <3

I found him by accident. A happy one, I would say. When I came in here a few months ago, looking for a good stakeout location, I had no idea I’d be coming back again. I might have been less rude if I had. Although he never minds it when I am, which is probably why I came back in the first place.

It’s a small salon, a family business. They only work with appointments, and although his sister helps him, she never happens to be here when I come in. I’m not sure if it’s because of the drinking or because he knows I need the stillness.

He takes my coat, hangs it on a hook next to the door, his hands smoothing the fabric - he likes the texture. He motions to the basin, asks if I’m comfortable in that quiet voice of his, starts running the water. It’s the perfect temperature, it always is. He wets my hair carefully, scooping the water over it slowly. He never speaks when he washes my hair. Just his fingers pressing into my scalp, his thumbs making circular motions behind my ears, at my temples. Sometimes he hums a little, but it doesn’t bother me. He rinses out the shampoo thoroughly, shielding my eyes with his hand so I won’t get soap in them. His hands are small and strong. I can tell he has a slight tremor in his left one, but it will be gone when he starts cutting my hair in a bit. He has calluses on his ring finger and thumb from his shears, but still his hands are soft and gentle.

He folds a towel around my head, guides me to another chair with one of those hands at my lower back. He asks if I want the spot next to the window again. I say I do. I don’t really care, I’m not on a stakeout this time. But if feels like our chair now, so I go and settle myself while he gathers his things.

He unfolds the damp towel as if my hair were a gift.

He runs his fingers through it lightly, and I can feel the effect he has on my overworked brain. It’s like he oils the gears, makes everything run smoothly once more. He doesn’t feel the need to talk endlessly or ask inane questions, like some hairdressers do. I can retreat into my mind palace with ease if I want to, I trust him to cut my hair the way I want it. Curly hair is notoriously difficult to style, but it’s not a problem for him. I let him happen to me.

Sometimes he’ll notice that I’m restless, and ask what I’m working on. He enjoys listening to my stories, asks questions about them, utters praising words. I like to come in when I’m stuck on a case. He’ll ask me for clarification or make a remark, always speaking in soft tones, soothingly carding his fingers through the curls at my nape - and suddenly everything clicks together. He doesn’t mind it when I run out with wet hair, if I have to. He will call after me to solve it, calls me a genius and I run across London with the scent of his shampoo still clinging to me.

Today he’s quiet, his clear blue eyes focused on his hands. The only sounds breaking the silence are the snipping blades of the scissors and the rustle of his shirt as he works. He smells like wax and hairspray and warmth.

He looks at me as if I’m a work of art he’s creating. He pushes my hair into place, tucking a strand behind my ears. His fingers linger there - I don’t mind. He smiles at me, licks his lips. I watch him in the mirror. He gently tugs at the curl on my forehead to loosen it. I frown at him, but he just laughs a little.

‘It suits you,’ he says.

His hands rest on my shoulders, his thumbs stroking my neck. It feels electric.

I wonder if he’s like this with other clients, I wonder if he touches them in the same way. If he stares at their reflection in the mirror like he’s doing now.

‘It’s just you,’ he says.

We both smile.


	2. Curls & Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The curls come to life as I work. I feel them tangling around my fingers, and I suddenly have a vision of my hands in his hair in a completely different context and I need to cough a little to hide my discomfort. I don’t want to dwell on it.
> 
> I asked him once. Married to his work, he said. I can believe that. I can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter two is here!
> 
> Thanks to my lovely beta [Felicia](http://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/pseuds/loveanddeathandartandtaxes)!

He’s nervous when he walks in. I can tell by the way he yanks his scarf from his neck, the way his fingers tap every available surface. His feet shuffle and he refuses to sit still while I wash his hair.

I love this part. He usually calms down when I work the shampoo into a fragrant lather and massage his scalp. I’m careful but thorough. I keep at it until I can see the tension drain out of his face, his eyes closing and his hands releasing their grip on the armrests. His breathing is even and I almost think he’s fallen asleep. I condition his hair and rinse it again, enjoying the clean, smooth feeling as I run my hands through it. I wrap his hair in a soft towel, careful not to jostle his head. He sighs softly, content. 

I suppose I provide a warm and safe space for him, because his world is all crime and puzzles and sharp edges and adrenaline. To be honest, I love that he brings a bit of that world to me. I live for his stories, his cases. I soak it all up, imagine myself running with him, the dark streets of London our playground and I feel giddy when his eyes light up while explaining a particularly gruesome murder. I wonder if he knows that he gives to me what I give to him.

I’m not sure if he feels things that way.

Maybe I’m just his hairdresser. Forgotten in an instant, left behind for the mysteries the world has to offer.

But I can dream, as long as I have him here.

I must have been a little too lost in thoughts, because he clears his throat, his mercurial eyes focused on mine. We move to his seat at the window. 

I get my things together, focusing on here and now. My fingers ruffle his hair, the curls less pronounced now it’s wet. He looks like a painting. ‘Your hair has grown quite a bit’, I say to him. He hums in reply. I smile at his reflection. ‘Any interesting cases?’ I inquire, more for my sake than his. I need to live a bit through him, to get away from this safe space, where everything is predictable and nothing ever happens.

He doesn’t answer right away, and I start cutting his hair. The curls come to life as I work. I feel them tangling around my fingers, and I suddenly have a vision of my hands in his hair in a completely different context and I need to cough a little to hide my discomfort. I don’t want to dwell on it.

I asked him once. Married to his work, he said. I can believe that. I can.

It’s easy to focus on my work, on how to accentuate his cheekbones just right with the curls around his ears and how to elongate his neck if I trim the hair at his nape and he surprises me when he suddenly speaks.

‘You are’, he says in that deep rumbling voice of his. 

‘Sorry?’ 

‘An interesting case.’

His eyes never leave mine in the mirror. My mouth is dry. 

‘I...I am?’ 

‘This used to be your father’s business. He died when you were in your twenties; he had a weak heart and he liked to drink. You were studying to be a doctor, but you dropped out to take over the shop. Your mother left when you were very young, and you feel like this is all you have left. Your sister’s in the business too, but she takes after your father. He was a good man and he taught you everything he knew, but you still want something more. Something to test your limits, to get your blood pumping.’

I’ve stopped breathing. My voice sounds wheezy.

‘How did you…?’ 

He’s never deduced me before and I feel elated and vulnerable and naked before him.

He swivels the chair, pinning me down with those strange eyes.

‘Those are your father’s scissors.’ He gestures with his chin. The shears clatter to the ground. I’m overwhelmed by him.

‘John.’

I can’t stop staring. He stands, undoing the cape while he does and suddenly he towers over me.

‘I need an assistant. You might not be the most luminous of people, but you...you are my conductor of light. You clear my head, you make me better. We could share a flat - I know a place, it’s not too far from here. Baker street. You can still work here if you must, but you could help me on cases when I need you. Admit you want it, the thrill of the chase, you and me against the rest of the world!’

His hands grip my arms above the elbow and he shakes me. I’m completely lost in his rapid fire words.

‘John!’ 

I want him to repeat my name endlessly, I want to hear it again and again and I want to taste it on his lips.

He looks anxious, waiting for a reaction. His eyes are wide and worried. I realise that he’s scared. I can’t believe how stupid we both are. 

I must be losing my head, but I can only surge forward to capture his mouth with my own.

We stand still for a moment, completely frozen. I pull back a little, the reality of what I’ve done settling in my stomach. 

‘Sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I don’t know why I did that.’ I can’t look at him. Stupid, stupid!

‘I...is this...does this mean you want to?’ 

His voice is small and I look up and what I see in his face is pure and soft. Time to be brave, Watson.

‘Yes, of course,’ I say, ‘I want everything you’re willing to give me.’

His smile is bright and makes him look so very young. This time he bends down to kiss me, clumsily, his hands still gripping me, but they relax when I run my tongue over his lower lip and let my fingers play with the curls at his nape. He sighs into my mouth, hot and sweet.

He lets go after a while, face flushed and hair in disarray but otherwise back to his confident self. 

‘That is settled, then. We can go and look at the flat now, as you don’t have any more clients today.’ He moves to grab his coat and scarf and swans out of the door and I know that I will follow him wherever he may go. But I need to do one more thing.

‘No, Sherlock - wait.’

He turns, and his face flickers between blank and crestfallen.

I scoop up the scissors and gesture to them with my other hand. ‘I have to finish your hair, first.’

He settles back in the chair with a grin. 

 


End file.
